


Lacuna

by plethora



Category: History Boys - All Media Types
Genre: Bittersweet, Fluff, M/M, i don't know what I am doing, someone take the keyboard away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-26
Updated: 2013-02-26
Packaged: 2017-12-03 16:12:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/700143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plethora/pseuds/plethora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scripps contemplates if pityfuck is still the right word for whatever the thing they have is. (It isn't.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lacuna

**Author's Note:**

> lacuna: A lexical gap or lacuna is an absence of a word in a particular language. Types of lexical gaps include untranslatability (when a distinct concept in another language does not have a distinct word in the language in question)
> 
> This is an orphaned snippet from a much longer piece that I scrapped, but it looked rather lonely sitting on my hard drive...

It probably shouldn’t be this easy to get Pos absolutely desperate, Don thinks.

In his head, of course.

Saying it aloud would ruin the mood entirely.

Pos would fluster and probably go from embarrassed to pissed off in the space of 2 seconds, but there’s something about the flush of his cheeks and the shape of his mouth when he pants out _fuck_  that makes Don want to commit it to paper - something hurriedly scribbled down in cheap, smudgy, fountain pen ink.

He could write poetry about the perfect arch of David Posner’s back when he cants his hips upwards, and the way he gets goosbumps if Don drags his blunt nails across his fragile ribcage.

It strikes him that he should probably be bothered by that – of how some days he struggles for inspiration about anything, but picture his friend naked and – well. The words flow. True, anything he does write takes the form of almost indecent poetry - but.

He really isn’t bothered. Odd, really.

If he's totally honest with himself, he should be distressed by a great number of things, like the fact he’s doing this and still goes to church on a Sunday, and his philosophy work lies forgetten as he presses Pos into the crumpled sheets but--

Beneath him, the boy in question whines, pulls him closer by his shirt. It’s hard to remember that this started off as a pityfuck – bloody hell, hard to remember anything at all – when said pityfuck (something twinges in Don's chest) is valiantly trying to undo your trousers.

He can always try and find the right word for it later.


End file.
